


Things That Don't Exist

by shadoedseptmbr



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadoedseptmbr/pseuds/shadoedseptmbr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Hermione is being watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Don't Exist

**Author's Note:**

> Post-War fic, written before DH came out, so AU or out of canon, at least.  
> The title, of course, is from Robert Frost's _In the Home Stretch_.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On Wednesday, she was nibbling on the end of her pencil and cross-referencing notes.

On Thursday, she was wearing an odd little rain-cloak that looked inappropriately hand-knitted.

On Friday, you found the perfect table, just beside the door.

******************

 

You’ve been watching her for much of the term, this girl with her shining halo of hair. She comes to the library almost every day, sits at the same table and immerses herself in her studies, rarely acknowledging the rest of the library’s denizens.

She is pretty, in a careless way, with wild brown hair and sharp brown eyes. There’s a small scar that twists her upper lip into a wry quirk. And another on the palm of her left hand, scar tissue shaped like a sunburst that you saw when she pushed the glass door of the library open, as you entered. You think that someday you will know that story, too.

Once you passed her, brushing by her (by accident) in the stacks, and the scent of electricity and dusty herbs clinging to her lingered in your mind. She dropped her rucksack a month ago, a tumble of bird feathers, wee bottles and a prettily carved stick of some sort spilling out before she tucked it all back in. You thought you had a chance then, following her to the edge of the campus grounds thinking of a story about seeing her drop a pen, before she suddenly disappeared into the crowd. She isn’t very tall; she would have been easy to miss.

She rarely speaks to anyone besides one of the librarians. You almost decided to try to speak to her again, but later found yourself on a different floor reading a book you didn’t recall looking for.

Her table is always open when she comes in, the one in the far corner that faces out into the reading room, faces the door. It makes you wonder what’s behind her, that she needs to watch the others, the comings and goings. You look out for her, though, scanning the hall when she is engrossed in her work, for whatever might make her nervous.

She’s an anthropology student, perhaps. She is always surrounded by esoteric texts on tribal rituals and primitive “magic.” She surprises you sometimes though with the odd physics and astronomy book, even a cook book or gardening on occasion. It inspires a strange sense of pride in you, that she is deeper than the average scholar, wanting broader horizons for her interests.

Twice you’ve seen her on campus, the first time coming out of a small building that you’re told is an abandoned caretaker’s station and the other time stepping out of a dis-used broom cupboard. You think perhaps she is a bit absent minded, so wrapped up in her studies that she occasionally wanders in the wrong direction, but it doesn’t seem likely when she is so decisive about everything else.

Today seems to be an astronomy day, her right hand flying, taking notes, while she reads, her nose almost touching the pages. Then, as she sometimes does, she sits up and stares at the darkened portrait of a long dead scholar in a silent conversation. She nods once, and goes back to work, puzzling out whatever she puzzles. Her lips are moving, but you think it’s the odd pidgin Latin you’ve heard her whispering to herself in disjointed phrases. Perhaps it’s some form of shorthand.

Her hair is escaping the pins she’s captured it with, slipping into her face and with a huff she snatches a pencil out of (her bag maybe, certainly not out of) thin air. Bunching and twisting the unruly mass of hair, she stabs the pencil through the knot, never taking her eyes from the page, barely losing the rhythm of her notes. It’s an established ritual.

Now there is a flurry of movement behind you, in the entryway. It’s her two friends, the only people you’ve seen her with, come to interrupt you. They show up almost every Friday, seeming to drag her away into weekend pursuits. You’ve never seen her here on those days or even after 5 o’clock.

They are perfectly normal, but somehow they seem stranger than she, in everyday ways. The tall, ginger-haired fellow, just now growing into his broad shouldered frame has a funny habit. On the day you happened to leave right behind them, you’d seen him pointing out things like post boxes and mobile phones and it occurs to you today that he might be an artist, in love with the mundane. Or he might be an idiot country boy, up to the city to visit. You’ve nicknamed him Dick, and it’s stuck somehow. He seems friendly enough, though he’s always careful to give the room a good once over before they sit and before they leave.

The other is too skinny for his height, frequently to be seen slouching, his hands in his pockets. He’s got a wary look and shadows under his eyes like a perpetual insomniac, with the blackest, messiest hair you’ve ever seen. You’ve designated him Tom and it suits him well enough that, if you’re ever introduced, you imagine you’ll call him by that name for the first month of your acquaintance. He reminds you of soldiers you’ve seen recently returned from wars, but you can’t quite place the resemblance, excepting the unnervingly still quality.

They are respectful and quiet, yet they seem to have drowned the hall in disarray. They aren’t doing anything but joining their friend, yet other people are staring as well. They nod to each other and they seem to speak silently as they flank her table. They nodded to you as they passed you and you felt strangely…included, that scent of burnt circuitry and incense trailing them the way it clings to her. It must be a project they have together.

Today, Tom’s carrying a package in his left hand and as he tosses it to the table in front of her (you heard Dick speak her name once, sounding something like Ione) you can see a pad of scar tissue on his palm, a sunburst, twin to her own. There are bandages on his other hand and a purple bruise on his jaw. Dick’s got grazed knuckles this week and a plaster across the bridge of his long nose. You think they must be pub-brawlers or maybe they belong to a particularly rough rugby team, so often they’re banged up.

She’s glanced up in a random glower that makes Tom grin while Dick wards her off with an exaggerated fluttering hand-gesture and mocking terror on his wide features. They slide into the chairs beside her, seemingly content to flip through her books, munch on their box of candy (you wonder if you should complain to the librarian about damage to the books) and watch her work, though Dick’s brought a coin or golden disc that he’s palming and recovering.

You look to your own books, ignoring that she’s fallen back into her own work, or that she occasionally reaches out an ink-stained hand. Dick hands her a candy that she sucks absently, never looking to see what it might be. Tom hands her a book and she turns to her page assured he’s given her the right text. It speaks of familiarity, set in stone.

You’ve not noticed that a half hour has passed until Dick flips his coin and it’s suddenly very obviously a pocket watch that he slips under her nose. She sits up blinking and he pushes away from the table, unfolding himself and reaching out a scarred (it’s the same scar, isn’t it?) left hand and pulling her up. It’s all utterly quiet, the carpets muffling the movement of the chairs, and he’s wearing a look of pure mischief. A similar smile breaks across Tom’s face and he’s suddenly much younger than he’s seemed before as he lets his journal fall shut and begins to cram her books into the rucksack he’s picked up. Dick tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and she smiles up at him and then back at Tom, holding out her other hand.

You’re an intruder in that instant, and your face heats. You’ve been playing voyeur in their world. You try to get back to your notes. But you glance up (who wouldn’t look up at the ruffling of their papers) as the three of them pass by and you realize that Tom (not his name, no reason to call him that) has spotted you watching. He has terribly green eyes behind his glasses and an appraising expression. Something quakes in you, you aren’t sure why. There is nothing menacing about him, in his frank gaze. You’ve done nothing, nothing but watch, your thoughts whisper. You haven’t been close enough even to catch her name, really. And yet. He raises his eyebrow and tips the corner of his lips (not smiling, now) and there is no threat. (Except.)

And you realize that this has all passed in a second and they are at the doorway and into the hall and gone. You drop your eyes again to your papers but then look up to see if anyone else smells copper wire. No one has noticed them leave. You’re surprised to see so much accomplished, don’t recall working this steadily. You wonder when you wrote that paragraph, as it doesn’t seem to flow with the rest of your notes.

**************  
On Monday, you didn’t remember to go to the library.

On Tuesday, you spent much of the day on the wrong floor.

On Wednesday, you passed a girl with bushy brown hair and didn’t recall ever seeing her there before.


End file.
